There’s no limit to this cop’s brand of street justice…

Welcome to Freebie Friday. Every Friday during March, I’ll present a new erotic short story. In today’s post, a traffic violator discovers what street justice really means…


By Cara Bristol

A carnival of red and blue flooded the rear view mirror, and Misty Call’s stomach dropped lower than the floorboard of her turbo-charged sports car.

“Oh crap. How long have you been there?” she muttered as a short blast of a siren added insult to injury.

Misty braked and eased onto the gravel shoulder. “Why does this happen when I’m running late?”

At eight p.m. sharp Le Club de Mystere locked its doors and barred latecomers so she had to hurry if she was to meet up with her date, a man selected for her by Mistress Devore. But now this.

The late summer daylight would fade soon, but it was still light enough to peer into the mirror at the vehicle behind her. No wonder she hadn’t noticed the cop as she cut across the country road. In what universe did cops drive white SUVs, for Christ’s sake? What happened to the good old black-and-whites you could spot a mile off? It wasn’t fair.

Not only would her date think she had stood him up, she would probably get a ticket.

She lowered her window. The huff of her sigh lifted the wispy bangs on her forehead. She drummed her red acrylic nails on the steering wheel as she waited. The cop was taking his sweet time.


Finally his car door slammed, and she watched him approach. He was a sexy asshole, she’d give him that. Even under adverse circumstances, she found it hard to ignore a man in uniform. Pilots, firemen, hell, even the package delivery guy in his short pants stirred her libido with a hot little zing. But her personal weakness? Cops.

This one carried himself with confidence, but didn’t strut like many did. His gait was easy, despite his load of gear. His gun—a Glock perhaps?—was holstered high on his right hip, along with a nightstick. His left side bore a radio and a canister, tear gas probably. He had all the equipment a man needed to take control. Her gaze lingered on the cuffs attached to his utility belt, and she shifted on the seat.

The cop’s tan uniform was crisp with knife-sharp creases. A dark brown stripe ran the length of his pants, drawing her attention to long muscled legs. A cap hid most of his head, but she could see short, dark brown hair on the sides.

He stopped behind her window and peered into her car’s interior. A badge was pinned to the left side of his chest, a nametag to the right. Halloran, it said.

“Do you know why I stopped you, Miss?” He asked in that maddening polite tone cops had. Mirrored aviator glasses shielded his eyes.

If she had been driving sixty in the fifty zone, she might have feigned ignorance. But the last time she checked her speedometer, she clocked herself at around ninety, give or take a few miles per hour.

“I must have been speeding.” And the time remaining to get to the club was racing away, too.

Misty avoided blind dates on principle. But after bedding a series of losers, she no longer trusted her judgment. Not one of the men she dated understood what she needed, let alone was able to provide it, so she had allowed Mistress Devore—known as much for her matchmaking skills as owning and operating a successful sex club—to arrange a meet-and-greet. Mistress Devore had given Misty little information other than “Dack” was a stickler for punctuality, and that Misty should expect the unexpected.

She hoped Dack was half as attractive as the officer. Why did she never meet men like him? She lowered her lashes to check him out. Oh, baby. If only she had more time. But she didn’t, and there was the tiny matter of the speeding citation.

“I don’t suppose you could let me off with a warning, is there?” She tried to sound appropriately penitent.

“May I have your license, registration, and insurance, please?” His clean-shaven square jaw bore the dark tinge of heavy beard. His nose had a slight bump as if it had once been broken. Probably in a scuffle with a criminal, she imagined. This guy had testosterone to spare.

Misty extracted her license from her wallet, and leaned over to retrieve the other requested documents from the glove box, flashing as much cleavage as she could.

His lips twitched with amusement.

Okay, she was a tad obvious, but the situation wasn’t funny. Misty had logged a lot of miles in her job as a tri-state pharmaceutical rep, and had racked up an equally proportionate number speeding tickets. She had no idea how many points she had on her record, but she feared her license might be suspended if she got one more ticket. Unable to drive legally, she’d lose her job.

She handed over the documents and kept an eye on Halloran as he strode to his vehicle. Nice ass, she thought. He looked tall, too. At five-ten, she appreciated any man who could top her. His shoulders stretched a mile wide, and he had the biceps to make a woman drool.

Stop it. She chided herself. She was meeting whatshisname at the club. She glanced at her watch. Or maybe not. She might be blacklisted after standing up one of Mistress Devore’s personal selections.

She smoothed a hand over the sleek hair tucked behind her ear. On impulse, she had her shoulder-length auburn mane shorn to a short cap last week. She wasn’t sure she liked the change, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She twirled a finger around an earring.

Halloran returned without his cap and her documents. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, taking a tiny chink out of his armored perfection, making him all the more…perfect.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to please step out of the car.” His commanding tone overrode the politeness of his words.

Misty widened her eyes and ceased fiddling with her earring. “What? Why?”

“Step out of the car.” No pretense at politeness there. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. Melted chocolate shouldn’t be that hard, she thought as her gaze collided with his stern dark brown eyes.

Her heart raced, her mouth went dry. She opened her car door and exited, her short skirt riding up to reveal her thighs, a purely accidental flash of skin this time. “What’s wrong?” She looked up at the cop. Despite her anxiety, she realized she’d been right about his height. Though her heels inched her over six feet, he topped her still.

“Where were you going so fast?”

Misty smoothed her already neat hair behind her ear. She couldn’t tell a cop she was meeting a date at a sex club! “I had a meeting.” She swallowed.

“A meeting?” Disbelief was evidenced in the slight rise of his eyebrows and voice.

“A meeting.” She repeated more firmly, refusing to betray how intimidated she felt. It was none of his business where she was going.

“I clocked you at ninety-one miles per hour. That isn’t speeding—it’s reckless driving.”

Oh shit. She’d lose her license for sure. Her bravado collapsed like a deflated balloon. “Please, please could you just give me a warning? I promise I won’t speed anymore.”

“No, you won’t,” he agreed. “Put your hands on the hood of your car.”

Her heart rate spiked. Oh, God, was he going to arrest her?

“We can do this any way you want. I can issue a citation, and you’ll be fined and your license likely suspended, or we can settle the matter right here, right now.”

“What do you mean?” She licked her dry lips.

She followed his movement as he reached for his side. Her gaze riveted on the implement dangling from his utility belt. That hadn’t been there before; she was sure of it.

“You can’t be serious.” She stared at the leather paddle.

“I think one spank for each mile over the speed limit would be a fair and just sentence.” He turned the paddle over in his large hands.

Her stomach quickened. A flicker of heat ignited deep and low in her belly. “Somebody will see,” she whispered. She pressed her thighs together.

Halloran glanced left and right. “We’ve been here ten minutes and no other vehicle has come along.” He shrugged. “But if one does, that works in your favor, doesn’t it?

This wasn’t right. It damn sure wasn’t legal.

She felt light-headed. “All right.” She bit her lip.

Misty moved the few steps to the hood of her car, the motion focusing her attention on the dampness between her thighs. No, not damp. Her thong was soaked. She flattened her palms against the hood. It quelled the shaking of her hands, but did little to halt the trembling of her rubbery legs.

“Lean on your elbows and spread your legs.”

The stance afforded her a firmer footing, although she doubted that factored into his reason for his order. Her heart hammered. She should be jotting down his badge number and hightailing it to Internal Affairs, not presenting her ass like an obedient subbie. What happened to her indignation?

“Since this is a public road, we’ll forgo the bare bottom,” he said. “This time.”

Before she could ponder the meaning of his last comment, the paddle seared her left cheek. She inhaled, absorbing the pain.

Another strike. Sharp, hard, crisp. Perfect. Then another. And another.

Her ass burned. The thin layer of her summer skirt offered little protection from Halloran’s searing kiss.  A particularly hard spank had her reflexively covering her ass.

“Put your hands back on the car.”

She obeyed immediately.

Three extra hard strikes fell in rapid succession on a single cheek. Misty gasped, sucking in the faint odor of road tar, the sweetness of the field grass and the embarrassing musk of her pussy. She clenched her hands into fists. Her breasts rested against her arms, and her nipples poked into her forearms.

“Please…oh, god, please,” she moaned.

“You’re not going to speed anymore, are you Misty?”

Her ass was already on fire, but the rumble of her name on his lips lit another in her chest. “No, Sir,” she responded.

Punishing smacks stung her ass several more times. “I think you’ve learned your lesson now,” he said. “Turn around.”

Slowly she faced him. Her hands rubbed her burning ass cheeks. She had a hunch her butt was just as red as if she’d received a bare-bottomed spanking. Halloran hadn’t held back. He’d known instinctively how hard to spank her. What she could take. What she needed.

Misty’s heart thumped as he reconnected the paddle to his belt.

He fixed a stern gaze on her face. “Now I want you to drive the speed limit to Le Club de Mystere.”

Her jaw dropped.  “How—”

Expect the unexpected.  Her gaze zeroed in on his name badge, then flew to his face.

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m Dack Halloran. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Misty.”


Thank you for visiting. Please join me next Friday for another free read. If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it, and my heroine plans to keep it in, Call Me Desiree.







This entry was posted in Domestic discipline stories, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to There’s no limit to this cop’s brand of street justice…

  1. Christina says:

    Wow! That was hot! I’m glad they’re aren’t cops like that on the roads for real though since I speed too occasionally! LOL

  2. You know, I expect a lot when I read your stuff, and I’m never disappointed. Dack is hot and delicious, and the fantasy is so perfectly rendered here. Love all the sensory details, the road tar and field grass and embarrassing musk. And I especially love how he knows exactly how much to make it hurt. I’m impressed, as usual. 🙂

    (ps — Might want to revisit this sentence: “Where happened to her indignation?” I think cut-and-paste might’ve gotten the better of it.)

  3. Cara Bristol says:

    Thanks Vivien. I wrote this story a while ago and did a little more editing before I posted it. I always make new mistakes when I edit! Thanks for catching that. I fixed it.

  4. Karla Doyle says:

    Loved this, Cara! What a great short!
    I never speed, but I’m thinking maybe I should start…

  5. Thianna D says:

    Oh, very nice! Loved how you brought it all together in the end.

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